Jonquil and Marigold

‘Dammit!’ she muttered, rummaging in the dingy cupboards beneath the sink. There were no other waste disposal containers; how he could live like this was beyond her. After cringing every time something unidentifiable touched her hands, she managed to grab hold of a plastic bag.

The front door slammed shut, startling her. ‘Jo!’ a voice rang out. ‘I’m in the kitchen, you don’t have to yell when you enter, man!’ she shouted back, nose scrunching as she dropped the remains of her banana into the bag. ‘And when are you planning to get a waste basket, Goldie? You live in a fucking pig-sty!’

Goldie was sheepish when he rounded the corner to enter the kitchen. ‘Eh, I’ll take care of it. What’d you have for lunch?’ he asked, peering curiously at the black bag Jo held. She dropped it to the floor with mild disgust. ‘A banana,’ she said nonchalantly, avoiding his eyes. The money in her bank account had been lesser than she’d expected after checking the same morning; guilt had goaded her into skipping a meal. But if Goldie knew this, he’d kick her ass faster than she could make an argument for it.

‘What? Are you serious?! Dude, you’ve been writing your essay all morning. You must be starving!’

‘Mind your own business,’ she snapped. Desperate to change the subject, she threw her hands out to indicate the entire kitchen. ‘I’m more interested in how you’ve been keeping your house, Goldie. The fridge needs to be scrubbed down, the water container is empty again…and did you know that cockroaches live in your shelves? Seriously, you’ve got to start taking better care of yourself!’

‘Mind your own business,’ he returned, albeit more good-naturedly. Pulling out a can of HIT, he sprayed the corners of the room, shoving her out at the same time. Then, he snatched up a cloth hanging off the soap-dispenser ledge and gave the smelly counter a perfunctory cleaning.

‘Alllll done!’ Goldie sang cheerfully, tossing the cloth back in place. He washed his hands and turned around to grin at Jo. She rolled her eyes back. ‘Okay, I just got off work. Wanna get a shawarma?’

‘Nah,’ Jo said, walking into the living room with Goldie at her heels. ‘I got stuff to do. You can go ahead, it’s cool.’ Then she let out an indignant squawk as Goldie tugged the short hair on her head to pull her towards the front door. ‘Let’s go, dude. Stop glaring so much, no guy is ever going to date you with a face like that.’

‘I don’t need a guy, Goldie!’

‘A girl, then,’ he chuckled. ‘Okay, okay!’ Ducking away from her furious smack to his shoulder, he opened the door and stepped out. ‘C’mon. It’ll be fun. I’ll pay, I need to break this thousand-rupee note. Bonus day today!’ He grinned widely at Jo.

For a moment, Jo stared back, gulping. The promise of Goldie paying was enticing; being taken care of, having everything handled by a grown-up, no fretting about the ridiculous amount she was spending on food in Mumbai…

‘No, it’s okay. I’ll just get some lime soda. I’m not very hungry,’ she said, glum-faced. They shut the door and waited for the old elevator, bickering about where to go.

They returned around 9 o’clock in the evening, Goldie exhausted from the pressures of the day. He threw himself onto his mattress, asleep in minutes after scrolling through some cat memes. And Jo, the growling in her stomach sated by Goldie’s second shawarma – after she’d scolded him for buying it despite being full from the first, of course – sat down to work on her essay.

Later, she cleaned the kitchen thoroughly and went to bed, tossing a blanket over Goldie on the way.

Smoke in the Eye (Chapter 1)

The first day I smoked again, I’d just run nine kilometres. That is, four months of running a little every day, squeezing in first fifteen, then twenty minutes. It started with two and a half, then three kilometres. One day, I found myself dismissing my chest splitting open and finished up with five.

Oh, I was down for a week after that.

A month of seven. I got more and more obsessed with it, during the winter especially. Where I live, it gets about as cold as spring shifting into summer elsewhere, so within a week after December began, I jumped from eight to nine.

Three days later today, I was still running nine, but it was good. Hell, it felt great. The concrete sent searing shots of pain up from my toes, but I ignored it.  I was going to work my way up to ten and become a lean, mean running machine.

I stretched a little and began walking home, but stopped short when I saw that white patch. Ignore it, I told myself. Move on, just like I’d whispered into my pillow last night. Even after all the yelling had stopped.

Like hell. Never liked myself much, so the day I listened to what I told myself to do wasn’t going to be this one, where I crossed the road and eyed the dog on its side – teeth bared and legs sticking out. It could have been sleeping, but flies love a party on a dead body. There’s always a lovely smell.

Bile rose in my throat and I shifted away. Movement on my peripheral vision; I jumped, turning around. A man with a handkerchief tied around his head had politely waited for me to leave, before grasping the corpse by its stiff legs and hauling in the opposite direction. I watched him striding away, He carried it like a sack of gold.

Shit. I swallowed down the acid. The next thing I knew, I was standing under the corner shop’s crude tin awning, smoke billowing in clean white puffs out of my nostrils. My heart buzzed, but my head was oddly blank.

Just like four months ago.

*

The crackle of my cigarette rang clear in the cold, but back then, the scene was heavy with something about to move places. It was July. Muggy bloody day, my cigarette falling limply from my fingers. The taste was bitter, the stick soggy. It was a breath of fresh air compared to the viscous oxygen everyone else was inhaling.

Later, chewing some gum I’d swiped off a friend, I came home to Mum and Dad already packed. ‘You have an hour,’ they said. No questions were answered, no tears wiped, no protests heard. I knew it was pointless to even try. It took me only three trips with all my junk, and then I was watching my old home disappear around the corner, a goodbye winking off its red roof in form of an early evening sunbeam. 

What are you supposed to say anyway when your life changes brazenly in front of your eyes, like a rebellious schoolkid screwing up for fun while the principal watches, and knowing he can’t do shit? The principal feels a chill press down his brow as sweat, because this is what he was trained to prevent: losing control.

I didn’t say anything when we came to our new home. All I knew was that it didn’t suck, there were a lot less trees and more people my age than where I’d previously lived. I had Skype, I could still go to the same college when term started. Things hadn’t changed except for where my new room faced.

A month later, when the internet still refused to work and my parents still refused to talk, I quit smoking and began to run.

*

All right, this is just the once. Calm down, I told myself, edging into the kitchen. I’d bathed and changed. Damn I loved running. It was so great, it was so worth the bullshit every other hour of my day.

The tang of the first cigarette I’d smoked in months lingered in my throat however, and as I approached the counter, I could feel myself shrinking in self-loathing.

Calm. Be in a Zen place. It was just this once. Stick to your goals. Be your own leader! I’d read this off a magazine in the dentist’s office, and I couldn’t believe I was repeating those sugary, green apple-colour-of-health words to myself. But back then, I wouldn’t have believed I could run nine kilometres either.

Mum and Dad looked up, smiled, and I grinned back. Okay, the sugar was working. The day was light gold, it was lovely and pleasant and I’d run like a queen and my parents were happy and eating all my favourite things for breakfast. Running was The Secret for me. Life looked really good right now.

‘Hey,’ Mum said, handing me a plate of scrambled eggs. I slapped Dad a high five and began wolfing them down. ‘Why aren’t you wearing earrings? Those holes will close, and you know how painful it can be to pierce them again!’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Don’t roll your eyes at me!’ she said. I shrugged, and looked for the paper. If I was lucky, today would list the show timings of Jake Gyllenhaal’s latest film. I’d been looking forward to it for months.

‘Hey, I’m talking to you.’ A hand slapped on the table, and I looked up in surprise. She’s not letting this go? I told her so. The ridge above my mother’s eyebrow was distinct, and I knew I was in for it.

‘When are you going to start dressing like a girl? For heaven’s sake, K-, you’re old enough to know what people will say! You look like a ten-year old boy in those shorts! Can’t you be a little more feminine?’

‘Mum, seriously? You might as well tell Dad to stop with his pink vest!’

Dad – ‘Don’t drag me into this.’

Mum – ‘Oh yes, we wouldn’t dream of it! After all, we ought to do what you want, and then you can conveniently sit back and watch us deal with the consequences!’

Dad – ‘I’m warning you. Don’t start. Don’t make me get up and leave.’

Mum – ‘Why don’t you Isn’t that what you want?’

How did this happen? How did one regular argument in any household become so ugly between the wrong participants? Both my parents stood, hackles raised, ready to lunge if one of them so much as made a step forward. I could feel the ugliness creep its way down my throat, the pungent taste bringing back all the nights so far, all the days of that first month we moved. I preferred the cigarette.

‘I’m going to my room.’

‘Why? Finish your breakfast.’

‘I’m done, Mum. I have work to do.’

‘So early? Why don’t you ever sit and talk to us?’

Because you’re crazy. ‘Later. I promise.’

Mum wouldn’t remember anyway. I had other promises to keep her company.

Besides, anything I said was always overshadowed by whatever was hanging in the air between my parents. It was getting heavier every day, and I didn’t want to be around for its spilling over.

Or did I? I hoped the spill would be full of answers, at least.

*

Want

I want to cum so hard

I want to cum so hard, it hits you right in the eye

Yeah, in the eye, fucker, learn to like going down

If I have to swallow a river, a spritz shouldn’t make you frown.

I want to laugh so crazily

I want to laugh so crazily, my teeth glint in the sun

And my mouth stretches till I’m braying like a hyena

And you’re staring, trying to be so brave – you liar!

I want to stare at you

I want to stare at you, my eyes like pools

Stripping, shearing the skin off you like masking tape

Until you are shivering bones, so easily torn like crepe

I want to snap my body back

I want to arch it high, over your head

Smack my leg across your face – yeah, take it

The crack of your cheekbones, blood spilling where the foot ripped

I want to slam you in the throat

Curl my fingers into the sockets in your head

Squeeze your spirit out, my hand oozing with juice

Grab your stick and shake the balls loose

And then let me watch you

Watch you as you’re leering at me right now

In the shops, in the bus, on your bike, across the street
Grins raking over me like fresh meat to eat

Art by Pranjali Dubey (@kalmuhi on Instagram)

In the Well

I had a dream once
That I was in a deep, dark well
A hollow creature, subhuman
A body, really
No face

I was everywhere
And nowhere
All at once, in space and not
On ground or in it.

I made sounds, no talk
Grunting, burping
Farting, snorting
Even a queef, for a laugh

I did not wonder how to move
I did not care to raise that head
To look up at the sky - blue, black, grey
I know not in my dream

Like an old clock though
I weathered on
Not that I knew time
Because I was not living a life

Soon the weathered wet bricks
Were my palms
The damp stone
My seat

The curling ends of my hair
Was it hair? More a beast merged with mine
The worms through the cracks
Cousins accompanying the queefs

In the heat was sweat and in the cold, tremors
What did I, whatever I was, know of them?
A curious, painful numbness
My head was merely a heavy accessory

I am now part of the well
And I wish I could tell
How I woke, how I went on
How morning was another life

Irony is a masterful poet
And in this one
She weaves a thread
Known to many, entertained by few

See, I told you this was a dream
It was
At this point I pause my pen
To lean over the rim

I enjoy my work, indeed
As does my touch in the works of others
Rarely do I feel
And this is no exception

It grunts in its space
Master of its own shell
But I am not inquisitive
I like to leave well enough alone

To entertain that this thing
Could dream the truth of my words
What fun! It is absurd
I am, however, aware of one thing

One shared connection, though I shudder
I do not feel, it does not feel
We could be so like each other
Instead, I drop my pen
And my words

Into the well
It does not stir
But I like to think
Some day

It will learn
And it will weep
And I will laugh
And then, the link will be broken

The 'Artist'

The eyes were big, always too big. She drew them out carefully, and then shadowed the dips near the imperfect nose, the undersides of the lids so that the result was a haunted expression, never staring directly at the viewer. She only ever shaped them that way when the eyebrows were deeply furrowed. Then the shadows lessened considerably, and the irises seemed fairly alight with some kind of internal fire. When her characters glared defiantly at her thus, their thin faces underscored with sharp cheekbones positively quivering with rage at some unknown cause, she too allowed her jaw to set grimly, her expression darkening as though seething in solidarity.

‘Looks a lot like you, doesn’t it?’

Of course, this intensity was real only to her. Anybody else saw flat, interesting doodles – maybe a little more than cartoonish, scribbled in the margins of her notebooks as she tried to balance listening in classes, and following those half-formed creatures in her head to only they knew where. They were faces, just faces, almost always turned to the front with only the eyes having in their repertoire a variety of expressions, of directions. She despaired of ever having them face sideways (the nose was the worst behaved when she tried and gave up). She attempted the rest of the body only once. It was a miserable failure, lending the face a childish quality that was not endearing.

‘I hate it so much sometimes,’ she complained to her friend as they snacked on coffee and cookies in the quad. She’d put away her notebook, but couldn’t resist running her pen over the tantalizingly bare skin of her bony ankles – it was a canvas in itself, never mind the fact that without the steadiness of a pad, her legs were often covered in little more than smudged patches of ink. ‘It becomes this obsession I need to fulfil, but nothing ever comes out right. Then I end up scratching it out, which is why I have to keep buying new notebooks.’

‘Just keep working at it, you’ll get better. All great artists practised, even Van Gogh was shit before he began eating yellow paint.’

‘That’s just it. I don’t want to be an artist for the rest of my life.’

Her friend shrugged, downing the coffee and grimacing. ‘So why do you keep doing it?’

How could she explain? Was it simply an itch that needed to be scratched? Or something more irritatingly poignant: a yawning hole that she needed to fill somehow before it was too late?

She yearned to complete a full portrait. Not in her regular style, but an actual likeness. Something so real that she could forever gaze at it and be proud of herself. Then she’d be able to stop the doodling over and over; the faces could coalesce into something of meaning. Most importantly, she could focus on what she was really good at, and leave this senseless scratching behind.

Because while it could have been a matter of letting go, the simple truth was that sketching hurt. She could remember every feeling that coursed through her when she drew a full face, a perfect face with the perfect expression: sensing her heart beat faster when she looked into the eyes, lingering on the fullness of the mouth, the soft shadows around the nose, the slant of the gaze so that her picture seemed to appraise its maker. And there were those moments of failure: her stomach swooping low and a weight that seemed to drag her down when she furiously tore the paper. Her actions always then belied what she felt – deep, deep melancholy accompanied by a blinding headache so that the only way she could feel better was to talk to another person.

This could often be near impossible: she hadn’t many friends. This wasn’t to say that she was not good looking, had bad manners or objectionable breath. But people were wary of her, of the way she stared at them when they spoke – not even maintaining eye contact, but roving over their features slowly so that it was highly unnerving trying to even greet her.

‘It’s weird. You keep looking at them, how do you expect people to feel comfortable?’

‘I can’t help it. They can be so beautiful when they’re just moving.’

‘…I worry for your mental health.’

‘Shut up.’

‘You’re doing it again! Stop staring!’

‘I like the way your lips shape words when you’re angry.’

‘Why the hell am I still hanging out with you, I’ll never be able to figure out.’

Eventually, people gave her a wide berth without trying to seem polite, and she was often seen forlornly sipping on her coffee alone or reading for lessons. The inevitable urge took over: she either scrawled what she saw around her in the margins, or began people-watching. Sometimes the two went together, and it was unfortunate how much more people began avoiding her after that.

‘Excuse me. D’you mind stopping?’

She gazed blankly at the girl in front of her, unable to formulate a response. ‘I- um-‘ ‘You’re being creepy. I’ve come over to tell you to stop. My friends are scared.’

Of course. That was why the girl had moved; for the longest time she had been talking, laughing with her head thrown back, exposing the long, bumpy line of her golden throat. The crook of her nose, the crinkles slowly indenting the sides of her eyes; all of that disappeared when she suddenly turned around. And oh! The face, that face, light fiery green eyes alight with anger, brows furrowed deeply downwards, mouth small and pursed into a pink line, hair tumbling forward so that she - staring up at the girl - wanted to lean closer to see how bright those eyes could be in the shadows it was creating…she wanted to draw and keep it forever and forever, make it her own…

‘Hey!’ A hand slammed into the table, and the girl leaned closer. ‘Are you even listening?’

She gulped. ‘I- I don’t know – you’re so beautiful,’ she ended hoarsely, still not able to look away.

The girl drew back slightly, her anger giving way to incredulity. She did not blanch, however.

‘Well, thank you. But that’s not reason for you to –‘

‘Yes, I know. I mean, I’m sorry. I really am, it’s just that I sketch but not very well and I observe people a lot and they fascinate me so I –‘

‘What’s that?’ the girl interrupted impatiently, gesturing to her book. She flushed and tried to hide it, but the girl had already snagged the end, flipping through the pages without comment.

‘I sketch,’ she said lamely, watching her. The girl’s upper lip drooped slightly over the lower.

The girl looked at her again. ‘Oh yeah? Draw me, then,’ she said, smirking.

Her mouth dropped. ‘Um.’

‘What? It’s the least you could do after making me so uncomfortable.’

‘Er. That is – o-okay. Sure.’

Now that the opportunity was at hand, she did not know what to do. Not once in all this time had anyone bothered to ask why she was observing them, and here was someone offering to be looked at, every line and dip and twist of the features, all to her heart’s content.

The noise around her in the cafeteria swirled till her head ached and her mouth went dry.

‘Could…could we go outside?’

The girl nodded. And in the quad with the sunshine sinking in that heavy hair and the breeze whipping their faces, she introduced herself. ‘My name is L-. I’m head of the photography club, if you didn’t know that.’

She looked up from the book, her special pouch out when she really wanted to work at a picture, her pencil and eraser at ready. ‘I’m B-. I’m…just me, I guess.’

L- said nothing more, but posed with a smile. Time passed slowly but to B-, it dripped like syrup: slow, sweet and so precious. She concentrated hard. There was no sound, except for the murmurs around them and L- occasionally humming a song B- vaguely recognized as ‘On Top of the World’ by the Carpenters. She looked up for reference, and found herself taking in L-‘s tilted head and quirked mouth, completely at ease. She stared as long as she could, following with her eyes the line of those lips and the curve of her cheek. She wanted to be able to have all of that for herself, down to the turned-up nose.

The scratching continued. L- yawned after a while, forgetting to remain cheerfully immobile. She tossed her hair over her shoulders, waved at passers-by, chewed on her nails, sang another Carpenters song under her breath. At one point, she got up, bought two cups of coffee and resumed her position. She was not reprimanded by B-, but the latter got increasingly frustrated, erasing continuously and drawing her pencil across the book in fast, furious strokes.

‘Aren’t you done yet?’ L- ventured after nearly an hour. ‘No!’ B- snapped, and then deflated at L-‘s expression. ‘I mean – give me ten.’

Some of L-‘s previous anger showed in her face but she was quiet. Ten minutes later, B- laid her pencil down. She did not say anything, just stared down at the book in her hands.

‘Well? Let me see!’

She pushed her book away before L- could get at it. L- sat back down, thoroughly annoyed.

‘I don’t see the point of staying here then, you selfish-‘

‘No, wait.’ She put her hand out. ‘Don’t go. I-I’m sorry, I just…I’m really, really disappointed in myself. I couldn’t…can’t show it to you. Not yet.’

L- looked at her.‘Are you crying?’

‘No,’ She said, ignoring the burning in her eyes. Her mouth dried fast and her head buzzed angrily.

L- appraised her with an unreadable expression, before sighing. ‘All right. It’s okay, I don’t really care either way. Let’s just talk. I want to ask you something.’

B- raised her head. ‘Yeah?’

‘Your drawings. Why do you only sketch the faces? Or do you keep your bodies at home because you’re secretly a pervert?’

B- grinned for the first time since meeting L-. ‘No. I get off on stuff online, just like everyone else.’ L- raised an eyebrow as though to indicate TMI, bruv, and B- flushed. ‘I can’t draw full figures. Especially the hands. They end up looking like a five year old’s first crayon art and it’s easier to stick to faces. I’m good with expressions.’

L- smiled. ‘Yeah. You are. But I think you’re scared.’

‘Of what?’

‘I don’t know. Stepping out from your comfort zone-‘

‘Nice cliché.’

‘All right, fair enough. Then of having to erase a line here and there, to draw over it and try to not repeat the same mistake. You’re very proud of your faces, I can tell, like they came from way inside you.’

B- frowned. ‘I did erase a lot when I drew you.’

‘You did, but you were pissed off. And you almost tore your page when you did that.’

They fell silent for a moment, L- sipping the cooling coffee and B- turning over in her mind what she had just listened to.

‘Being perfect takes a long time. Maybe even a lifetime,’ L- said quietly.

B- looked at her hands. ‘I don’t want to be perfect, I just –‘

‘Why do you draw?’

This too was succeeded by silence. Then – ‘Would you laugh if I said I had to?’

L- frowned. ‘No…but if you had to? Not because you want to?’

B- rubbed at her cheeks. ‘It feels like a mission I have to complete for myself. Like, I have to become really good at it so that something in me can stop…feeling empty? I dunno.’

A pause. ‘I have these characters in my head. Half-formed character sketches, more like. And I want to be able to see them take shape in front of me because…because they’re who I’d like to be. They’re nothing like me. And I can’t get them out at all from my head because I suck.’ This was accompanied by a sudden ripping of the grass in the quad.

‘I’m sure you’ll get better,’ L- offered gently, but B- shook her head again. ‘You don’t understand. I don’t want to draw for the rest of my life. I want to do…do something and move on to where I can feel happier with myself.’

The lovely crinkles around L-‘s eyes cleared in sudden understanding. ‘Is that why you stare at people so often? Because you want something real to stop this with?’

B- looked at her. The breeze blew strongly, lifting the hair now infused with sunshine off L’s neck. Her shoulders, exposed as they were, looked strong when she leaned back on her elbows and her upper lip was curiously pointed at the end. She squinted away from the sun, turning her head to the side.

B- smiled slightly. ‘People don’t know how beautiful they can be. And it’s not their features – it’s the way they speak, they move, from one moment to another. No one looks the same every second. There’s always this…twist of the expression, or like a movement of the mouth or eyes that gets me. I want to be able to draw that and keep it to myself. And…’ She sighed. ‘I suppose that would help me stop.’

L- sat up. ‘Let me. I can help you.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, no, I’m serious! How about this, you get your pad out, I’ll talk someone into sitting down and pretend I’m photographing them for an assignment. I’ll get as many pictures as you like and then I’ll guide you when you draw.’

B- was slowly getting excited about the idea. ‘That’s a really good idea! Tha – wait a minute. Why are you doing this for me?’ she asked suspiciously.

L- waved her hand at her. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m that game-changer you see in the movies, the one enabling the unlocking of your potential or whatever. Can we go?’

‘I’m serious! You were ready to bite my head off for the same thing! What changed?’

L- rolled her eyes as though she was being extremely stupid on purpose. ‘I started talking to you, duh. Now come on!’ She pulled B- to her feet.

In hindsight, B- thought, she ought to have had L- as a pet that did everything for you, no questions asked once you proved trustworthy and harmless. She was suddenly (annoyingly) cute with people, the right amount of sincerity in her voice to woo a willing model, an attractive mix of snarky and hopeful with the unwilling.

In two days, she’d drummed up a list of people B- had observed (B- shamefully pointing them out while L- laughed beside her - like an idiot, she thought furiously), who’d sit for her over the week.

‘Pick the one you want, then pick the one you want!’

‘Stop that! You’re not making sense!’

‘Do you want me to tell them why they’re really being photographed?’ L- sang.

‘…please don’t.’

‘So pick the one you want, then pick the one you want!’

‘Oh, shut up.’

When the photographs were finally showed to her, B- had a hard time choosing. There was that boy with gleaming dark eyes, which always happened when he was considering an idea. A teacher whose stern mouth softened when a student had a genuine doubt regarding her subject. The cleaners who gossiped cheerfully on break, the coordinator’s sly face when someone forgot to register on the last date; a smirk here, a joyful laugh there, that thoughtful gaze while considering a tough question.

‘It’s scary how you know these people so well through their expressions. They’re complete strangers otherwise,’ L- commented, watching B- as she studied the pictures.

‘Yeah, it is,’ B- replied quietly.

L- paused. ‘It’s okay,’ she said.

B- smiled. ‘I know it is now.’

She finally picked a picture: a boy with his head against the window sill as he narrated a story. L- had done a brilliant job capturing him mid-sentence. He wore a slight scowl, as though concentrating on delivering with just the right impact. Sunlight from the window filtered through, lighting the lines of his spectacles and his hair. The effect looked frosted; timeless.

‘Are you sure? It looks difficult.’

‘You’re going to help me, right?’

L- grinned.

She should be doing this, not me, B- thought. L- had pointed out that marking exact points for the head, chin and ears would be an easier way to start, and B- found herself making better progress than she had ever before, with that simple tip. She drew the outlines as carefully as possible, gazing at the boy’s picture till it seemed to have burned into the back of her mind. ‘The chin’s too long, erase it to a shorter length,’ L- would interject. Or, ‘Wait, wait. I think the jawline’s a bit softer. Don’t make it sharp, you’re not drawing one of your faces!’ And most frequently, ‘Stop pressing your pencil so hard into the paper. It’ll be hard to erase.’

The point is to not have to freaking erase! ‘I thought you said I was good at faces?’

‘Don’t be such a bloody brat. Everyone makes mistakes, I’m just telling you to stop making it harder for yourself.’

They met for an hour or so every day, and B- worked on shading to delineate the darker areas from the light. Unfortunately, L- had been right the first time, the angle of the face and the window were proving to be really difficult. It so happened that B-, working alone one night, ended up overshadowing the nostrils so that they seemed to replace the nose itself.

The headache returned in full force, and she threw the book at the wall. It fell to the floor, the page crumpling horribly in its place.

‘I’m done,’ she said flatly, tossing it at L- when she met her next. L- caught the book, opened to the now disfigured page, snorted and said, ‘You mean you give up.’

‘Yes.’

‘I see. I wasted my time with you then.’

‘Yes.’

L- tore the page out, shredding it carefully into bits. She smirked at the look on B-‘s face.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, L-?’

‘Why? Were you going to keep this as a fond reminder of your failure? I’m so touched.’

‘Just shut up. You had absolutely no bloody right. Give me my book.’

‘No.’ B- grappled for the book, and L- said, sharply, ‘No.’

You can’t open it, you’ll see – you’ll see what I drew when I first -

They glared at each other, and B- snapped first. ‘Give my fucking book back, L-!’ She fought for it, but L- was taller, and stronger when she was pissed. She pushed B- away and threw the book at her so that it hit her face.

‘You made me do that,’ she hissed. B- flinched. ‘You face it, you did this to yourself. Stop talking this whole thing so seriously. D’you think you can play me like some sort of magical fairy godmother and then give it up the moment things get hard?’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘You’re damn right I don’t. I also don’t give a flying fuck. When I took your book, I was just going to open to a new page and make you do it all over. I’ve told you before, you’re too proud to try again.’

B- stood still.

‘Art isn’t a miracle you desperately wish for while making the same mistakes. And what gives you the impression that –‘

Of  course.

B’s eyes widened. Her focus shifted to the book, and she stood quite still, struck dumb at how simple it all seemed suddenly.

Impression. That’s it.

‘L-,’ she said, cutting the other girl off. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. Let’s do this.’

L- ‘s face took on a curiously winded expression. ‘Eh?’

‘You’re totally right. I agree. Thanks. Can we go?’

‘That’s it? After all that yelling?’

‘Yeah, you’ve convinced me. Can we go?’

And L-, never the one to be put off by the oddity that was B- (or anything else, really), grinned her slow, crinkly-eyed signature. ‘All right then.’

B- took the book from her and followed L-‘s lead. When L- wasn’t looking, she turned to a page, and quickly shut it again.

It took a week more, because classes were being scheduled with a vengeance. And one morning, as L- walked across the quad, studying all the while, B- ran up and nearly into her.

‘Mind giving me a heads-up next time? In case, you know, my head isn’t up?!’

‘It’s finished,’ said B- breathlessly. She had never felt so alive before.

‘Let me see.’

L- opened the book. Then she looked up at B-. The other girl’s cheeks were flushed from running, but her eyes sparkled prettily. L- held the book out so that they could both examine it.

It wasn’t a completely accurate picture. For one, the boy’s jaw although considerably softened, was still not right and his glasses looked childish. But a viewer might disregard that entirely; the narrator’s scowl had been outlined with a fine pencil, shaded with a blunt one, and his eyes had deep shadows, both of which sharply contrasted with the light. The sun filtering through the window seemed to light him from within. He looked at once a denizen of this world and some other, an elf in human form who had arrived to tell wonderful, magical stories.

‘You’ve finally done it, B-,’ L- said softly. B- shook her head.

‘No. I did it before.’

And smiling at L-‘s characteristic raised eyebrow and quirked mouth, she flipped to an older, more precious page. A familiar face glared at the viewer, eyes devoid of any shadows, but filled with an awesome fire, made all the more brilliant by deeply furrowed eyebrows. The heavy hair tumbled irreverently around the face, underscored with sharp cheekbones that seemed to quiver with rage.

L- did not say anything.

‘I couldn’t draw you when you posed,’ B- said, the lack of response worrying her. ‘All I could think about was when you were the most beautiful, when we first met. So with him, I only had to use the picture for reference. The rest is how I – well, I mean – you know, when you made the impression - on...on me,’ she finished foolishly. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’re a fool.’ B- blinked.

L- tore the page out, carefully folded it and gave it to her. She kept the book.

‘You could have moved on ages ago. Why didn’t you?’

B- laughed happily, so happily. The folded-up page was held tightly in her hand, lifting some invisible weight off her. She could keep it forever and forever.

‘I guess I needed proof.’ Then, only slightly hesitantly: ‘Do you like it?’

And finally L- smiled. ‘I love it.’